The Long Night of the Wolves
by valondrina
Summary: Winter has come. Jon and Sansa dispute the throne of Winterfell. In King's Landing rules the chaos and the destruction, and the complicity between Jaime and Cersei is breaking apart.
1. Sansa

**Sansa**

Sansa looked at Winterfell's Great Hall from the dais where the Stark family was dining. Around her the voices and laughter echoed in the cold stone of the castle, and, mixed in the heavy air, one could smell the northern man, the dark beer and the deer roast served on Robb Stark's nameday, heir of Winterfell.

It was Robb's tenth birthday and his mother, Catelyn, flitted around him pricking his cheeks and filling his plate with food. Beside him, his father Eddard Stark chuckled and rested one of his big hands on the shoulders of his eldest son. Robb was still a small boy with a curly copper-colored hair and a black fuzz peeking over his lips, trying (without results) to get off his mother's grip who shamed him in front of his father's allies: the Manderlys, the Reeds, the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns, the Tallharts, the Glovers, the Umbers, the Karstark, all the Stark's vassal lords and sworn swords traveled to Winterfell to celebrate the firstborn wolf, even though they were not particularly interested in him at that time. In the chaos of Winterfell's Great Hall, beer vases were raised, stories of the First Men were told, and old disputes were reborn.

All the Stark brothers were sitting in the head table: Robb, first of his name, at his shorts ten years was trying to imitate his father's noble and imposing presence; Sansa, seven-years-old, beauty lady of Winterfell, made in the image and likeness of her mother, Catelyn Stark; Arya, four-years-old lady, the most northerly of her brothers with her hard features and masculine manners, that septa Mordane had tirelessly tried to correct, and, finally, the little Bran, the youngest of the four brothers who looked expectant around him while eating lemon cupcakes. Even the future Stark, growing in Catelyn's womb was there, at the table of the noble family. Then why Jon Snow wasn't sitting there with them?

Sansa had asked that question before already. So had Robb and Arya. Even Bran had asked. Because Jon was like another brother for them. He trained swords with Robb under the watchful eye of Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms; he helped Arya to ride Robb's pony and watched her run around in circles at the castle courtyard; he carried Bran on his shoulders when the little got tired of walking; and he always greeted with a polite nod when he met Sansa at the castle corridors. Instead, Theon, his father's pupil about the same age as Robb and Jon, didn't care about the little Stark brothers and he looked at Sansa with eyes far away from Snow's courtesy.

Sansa knew she shouldn't ask. Every time they did, their mother's jaw twitched in a grimace and her clear eyes turned black.

«Jon is no brother of yours», she said quietly, ditching any discussion.

Robb and Sansa, the eldest brothers, knew they shouldn't tempt their mother's mood, but Arya was more insolent.

«Jon is my brother, as much as Robb and Bran are! I want to sit with Jon at dinner!», once babbled the small princess, when she was three years old.

Robb and Sansa looked at each other frightened at the time that Catelyn's nostrils widened in indignation and her red hair seemed to burn on embers around his face. They were dinning in the Great Hall while Theon and Jon had dinner in the kitchen with the servants. Eddard Stark frowned at his plate, as he always did when the family Stark argued about his bastard.

«Jon will not eat with us», was what he used to said and dinner ended in a suffocating silence.

Once Sansa asked septa Mordane why his father had a son that didn't hold his surname and a mother who was not hers. The septa shook his head sadly at the innocent question.

«Neither the great lords are free from the call of the flesh, lady Sansa. Let's pray so The Crone can guide your lord father through the way of wisdom, and let's pray so The Mother gives lady Catelyn the compassion to forgive her husband», she had said that time and they spent the rest of the afternoon praying in the septum.

Little by little Sansa realized the meaning behind the illegitimacy of Jon Snow and the betrayal that her father had made. She spent whole afternoons praying in the septum, begging The Father to forgive his father's weakness and asking The Mother to bless the marriage with many children, and one after another, the little Starks came: Arya, Bran, Rickon. However, despite Catelyn's high fertility, Jon Snow's presence was still a gray cloud that hung over the towers of Winterfell.

Sansa's mind suddenly came back to the Great Hall. She had been wandering in her memories and hadn't noticed that his father stood up in front of their guests. The silence spread through the room like a blizzard.

«My sworn swords, my lord vassals; I have invited you to our home to celebrate Robb Stark's tenth nameday, heir of Winterfell and future Warden of the North. May the old gods protect the blood of the First Men running through his veins. May he live many years so he can rule with justice and wisdom the lands of The North».

The northerners roared and raised their fists in approval while Robb smiled widely with rosy cheeks.

His mother had also stood up to dedicate a few words to his son and a low murmur rose around the room. Even after ten years wearing the Stark's robe, "Lady Tully" was still resisted by the northerners. The Starks married women from their lands, it was said, wolves of winter like the Umbers, the Karstark, the Mormonts; they didn't rummage under the southern ladies' skirts who had not seen a winter like theirs. So still nobody knew what Rickard Stark meant promising Lyanna and Brandon's hand with such southern families. That stubborn decision probably made things ending like they ended: with Lyanna and Brandon dead, and the Targaryens wiped from this world.

«My precious son Robb, your father and I wanted to give you a present worthy of a man, on your tenth nameday», she said. «Mikken, you may enter»

Mikken, Winterfell's blacksmith, entered the Great Hall taking the reins of a beautiful horse. It was grey, like the Stark's direwolf. Mikken stroked her nose and the horse responded meekly.

«We've trained her for you», he said. «We named her "Frost"».

The northerners roared again in approval as Sansa and her mother applauded politely. Sansa would never forget the beaming smile of Robb when he stroked his horse for the first time, while, at the back of Winterfell's hall, Jon glared at the noble family and clenched his teeth.

When dinner was over, septa Mordane accompanied the maids to their rooms. Sansa was tired and she diligently accompanied the old woman, but Arya insisted on staying because she wanted to hear the stories and songs of the northern men. They could only convince her when Lord Eddard interjected saying that that was no longer a place for a lady as Arya. Sansa saw the dirty hair of her sister and her clothes stained with food, and chuckled when their father called her sister a "lady".

«Such a beautiful evening for our young Robb! May The Seven keep him in their Glory», said the septa. Sansa walked deep in thought while Arya went ahead, playing to not step on the cracks in the floor.

«Do you think that now that Robb has a new horse, they'd give me his pony to me?», asked the smallest, excited. Sansa had expected no less from her sister.

«Of course that Lord Eddard is not giving Robb's pony to you. You're still too young to have your own Pony. Surely they will give it to Bran», said the septa.

«But I'm older than Bran!»

«But Bran is a man and he will be a future knight of the House Stark», pointed the septa, satisfied with her own argument. Arya stopped jumping and frowned, as she always did every time she was told she couldn't do something knightly like her brothers.

«I will be a knight of the House Stark as well and my father will be proud of me», she exclaimed. A little headache had begun to emerge from Sansa's temple. She was not really in the mood for another of her sister's tantrums.

«Our father is content with you being a maiden. Can you behave like the girl our father thinks you are for once in your life? », Sansa blurted. Arya was about to pounce on her sister when the septa intervened.

«Enough! This discussion is not worthy of two Stark ladies!» Arya glared at her sister and if it not were for the septa, she would have thrust at Sansa, pulling her hair. «Sansa, here's your room, go and sleep soon», she ordered. «I'll take Arya to her room». They left Sansa in front of the heavy wooden door that led to her room while the two women walked away, arguing hotly. Soon their voices faded and the stone corridor plunged in silence.

Sansa hit the wall with a fist. Arya was so gross, so rude, so disastrous, yet she remained Lord Eddard's favorite daughter. No matter how Sansa strove to be the lady they expected from a noble lord's daughter, none of her lady abilities (sewing, singing, dancing) mattered to her father, who looked lovingly at her little daughter riding Robb's pony with her four years old. She had heard from Old Nan that Arya resembled Lyanna Stark, her father's dead sister. But Sansa had also heard that Lyanna was beautiful, like her. So, why his father bore Arya's terrible mood? Why didn't he recognize in Sansa the ideal daughter she was?

Sansa heard a crack in the hallway and her hearth thudded. She had forgotten that the castle was full of northerners men who wouldn't mind she was the eldest daughter of the castilian lord, if they found her wandering around the castle. Nervously, she tried to open the door, but it didn't budge as it always did. She struggled with the door and then tried to push it with her shoulders. Desperately, she started ramming the door, which suddenly gave way and Sansa fell headlong inside her room.

Someone knelt beside her.

«My Lady, are you all right?».

From the ground, Sansa looked up, expecting the worst, but she only met Jon Snow offering her a hand.

Sansa had never looked Jon so closely and she was surprised to see how much he resembled his father: the abundant black hair, the black fuzz on the lips, the square jaw. She was even more surprised to notice that he had been crying. Jon had bulging eyes and dry water drew a furrow on his cheeks. The bastard realized that his sister was watching him and pulled his face. Sansa rose without his help.

«Thanks, but I'm fine», she said. «Snow».

* * *

Sansa woke from her sleep feeling a sticky wetness between her legs. She had the moon blood. The agonizing wait had finally finished. Sansa was relieved she was not pregnant of Ramsay Bolton.

She rose hurriedly from her bed and pulled out the sheets stained with blood. She went to the boudoir where every night she left a bucket with water and wiped the dried blood on her legs with a damp cloth. She looked herself in the mirror of her parents' room, which now occupied Sansa, and couldn't help but remember her dream.

No, that was not a dream. She had seen a memory. A memory of many years ago when the ghosts that today she carried in her back were still alive: her father, her mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Sir Rodrik Casell, Mekken, the Old Nan, all of them... She felt so stupid for fighting with her sister and doubting of his father's love. She felt so guilty for not having treated Jon like a brother, especially now that they were the only Starks remaining.

She looked herself in the mirror and a stranger looked back at her. Her breasts had grown and her hips had widened. She was no longer the girl who one day went to King's Landing, and every day she looked more like her mother. And so Petyr Baelish had told her.

She looked where she had thrown the dirty sheets. She hadn't had the blood of the moon since two months ago and she had been expecting the worst, with the fear like a rope in her throat, as she always felt while she was named Sansa Bolton. She still had scars and bruises all over her body, the print of Ramsay's perversions.

She hadn't told to Brienne or to Jon anything about Ramsay's cruelty, even though she knew they could guess. On the contrary, Lord Baelish always knew, of course he always knew, though he tried to turn a blind eye when Sansa confronted him. Sansa told Little Finger to stay away from her and never look for her again, but she was precisely the one who desperately went at his search (running on her horse, expecting that the gallop would make her abort) at the prospect of losing Winterfell. _Again._

She continued wiping the dried blood and wrapped her pelvis with the cloths that she reserved for that time of the month. She dressed herself in a simple robe and covered her shoulders with the heavy bearskin Lyanna Mormont had given her. The wind shook the windows of the room. Winter was growing wild.

She went down to the Great Hall, hoping that there was something else than salt horsemeat for breakfast. It was a month since The Battle of The Bastards and during that time they had been dedicated to rebuild the ruined castle and obtaining all the supplies that was possible, in order to cope with the long winter that was approaching. They had salted the flesh of the dead horses in battle and sacrificed Ramsay's dogs to increase the size of the pantry. They had also fermented everything they found and the few sacks of grain left were kept under lock and key. If that Winter was going to be as longs as the masters predicted, none of their squalid efforts would be enough, thought Sansa.

Despite the dark foreboding that Winter exuded, Sansa felt happy, as happy as a maid who hadn't had a home in four years could be, a maid who had been dragged to two forced marriage with the enemies of her house, so happy as she felt the last time his father hugged her. Winterfell wasn't the castle that she recalled: it had been sacked, violated, burned and destroyed, and the ones who now lived in there were not the familiar faces from her childhood. Yet, it was home. The home she had longed for all those years, with the grey direwolf banner waving at the highest tower, as it always should had been.

Sansa thought of Jon Snow's white direwolf, Ghost, and of his stepbrother, who was now his only family. She also remembered the day the wildlings and the northern lords proclaimed Jon as the King in the North, as they had done before with their older brother, Robb Stark. And so she remembered the sour look that Lord Baelish gave her from the bottom of the Great Hall, as if he was remembering her who was the true heir of Winterfell's throne. She tried to wriggle out of those thoughts, but a new rope tightened Sansa's throat.

Those days the Great Hall was normally empty, except for Jon or Sansa. The scarce servitude of Winterfell used to be at the kitchen, in the royal courtyard or at the armories. So she was surprised to see a large entourage of the Valley of Arryn deployed around the room and Jon Snow sitting in front of Yohn Royce, Lord of Runestone, and Robin's Arryn adviser.

The two men stood up when Sansa entered the room. Royce made a sweeping bow.

«My lady», he waved. Sansa was still surprised of his visit. Travel and visits had been reduced with the arrival of winter, even in the delicate political situation that Westeros was living.

«My lord. We didn't expect to receive you», she said politely. She noticed that black bread and wine was served at the table. «I beg you to forgive our frugal welcome, but Winter is here and the North is not a fertile land at this time. However, you can be sure that Winterfell will always share their bread and salt with our friends. Why have our lord visited us? ».

Yohn Royce glanced at Jon, but he did not look up at his sister.

«In time's honor, my lady, I will be brief. I have come to seek your hand, which was promised to my lord Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, when his mother, Lysa Arryn -may the gods keep her in their glory- was alive».

His words were like a blizzard that hit Sansa. She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. She sought Jon's eyes calling for help, but he was still looking down.

«My lord is fourteen already: an excellent age to marry and have children. I have come to negotiate the wedding day, now that my lady Sansa has widowed Ramsay Bolton, she has no problem to get married, right?»

The lump in her throat would not let her speak. It was like the rope that Ramsay had placed around her neck when they got married. _No. Not again._ Jon still didn't look at her sister and Royce sensed Sansa's hesitation.

«Well, I think I'll let the brothers discuss alone in private. We will be waiting in the guests' room».

The old man left the Great Hall with his entourage of banners claiming the Arryns and the Royces. The deaf footsteps of the soldiers echoed in the stone walls of Winterfell. When the last guest was left and the heavy door was closed, Jon sputtered hastily:

«It's the best we can do, Sansa. We cannot reject the offer from the Lords of the Valley who came to our aid in the battle for Winterfell. We shouldn't forget they are probably the only army standing in the north. We need them. Winter is coming... »

«Jon! How can you do this to me!», Sansa cried, and her voice echoed in the great Hall. Jon frowned, avoiding her eyes. «I'm not some currency for your political interests! I will not marry Robin Arryn!», she shivered at the thought of sharing a bed with his cousin, who until recently drank milk from his mother's breasts.

«Sansa, this marriage had been arranged already... I'm just ratifying it».

«You cannot ratify anything, Jon. I've been dragged to two forced marriages already. I've been Sansa Lannister, I've been Sansa Bolton. I WILL NOT BE SANSA ARRYN! The only name that I will hold henceforth will be Stark, the only robe I will wear in my back would be the grey direwolf». Wind was insistently pounding the doors of the hall and snow seeped through the cracks.

«Sansa, you do not understand our position».

«You are the one who does not understand his position, SNOW!» Jon's eyes suddenly looked at her. Black as the night. Cold as the winter. Penetrating as the dragonglass. And Sansa remembered the sour look that Lord Baelish had given her during the proclamation of Jon. «Don't forget who the true heir of Winterfell's throne is. I do not forget that».

She fled through the doors leading to the kitchen, running aimlessly, hoping not to meet Royce or anyone in his entourage. Tears flooded her eyes and the lump in his throat wouldn't let her breath. She shouldn't have said that to Jon. She shouldn't have. But she couldn't help thinking that Lord Baelish was right. She was a Stark, the true heir of The North, a northern wolf, though for a long time she refused to believe it and wanted to be a southern lady... and she had already learned what the future holds for the southern ladies. She couldn't bear the idea of marrying for a third time, to leave home again, now, that she had just returned to Winterfell.

She didn't know how she appeared at the Godswood. Tears blurred her sight, but she could still see the evergreen leaves of the weirwoods bobbing in the wind. It wasn't cold at the Godswood. Even during the winter, the forest's hot spring was still there, its vapor rising in the small clearing, warming Sansa's cold heart.

Sansa fell at the face drawn in the old weirdwood and began to pray.

«Olds Gods, I know that I've always been devoted to the Faith of the Seven, but today I need your help because The Seven do not know about the northern affairs. If you have ever heard my father's prays, please, listen to me too. Do not give me away, please; I do not want to leave Winterfell... »

When she looked up, she saw the eyes of the weirdwood staring back at her. Eyes like hers. Blue eyes. Eyes like the Tullys had.


	2. The Wolf Girl

**The Wolf Girl**

Her claws sank into the thick snow, it'd been snowing for days. The pack found two dead rabbits buried in the snow that were probably more skin and hair than juicy flesh, but in those days every ounce of flesh would made the difference between life and death.

Nymeria had never seen a snowstorm like that in The Riverlands. The days were becoming shorter and colder, and the pack rarely ran into humans lurking in the woods, humans which once abounded, running from wars or marching towards one. For that very reason food was growing scarces and not enough to feed the numerous wolves that followed Nymeria. While some fought for a piece of bone, others fainted on the road and the famished brothers fed on that dead flesh.

Nymeria's days played out on the threshold of survival. At night the pack slept together to keep warm, and during the day they would look for food buried in the snow or hunt solitary and off-guard animals. Humans no longer inhabited the forest, and when they met one, they fled in terror at the size of Nymeria. Even in the famine, Nymeria was still an imposing direwolf. It was twice as much as the rest of her pack and her sharp claws still could cut off any knight's neck. Probably that was the reason why the other wolves followed Nymeria: to survive.

But Nymeria's life hadn't always been survival. There was a time when she was frequently visited by the wolf girl. Those days she felt her arriving suddenly at night, like a blizzard, clinging to her body like an abandoned child. Nymeria let her in, because she knew she was a girl who just wanted a body to run, jump, play and hunt. She felt her starving body, and her hungry spirit devouring deers, rabbits and ducks in a sad illusion. There were days when she was close and the girl visited her every night to play; there were other days when she was away and they couldn't connect. But it had been a long while since the last time the girl wolf visited her. Maybe winter had killed her, just as it was about to kill Nymeria.

The pack found a forest clearing where the thick trees protected them from the blizzard and the carpet of snow looked more like a plush bed than a bed of ice. The wolves, tired from the walk and fatigued by hunger, huddled to sleep, Nymeria among them. The last thing she'd eaten had been the hard flesh of a dead wolf the day before and her head was spinning. Hunger, cold and fatigue soon gave way to sleep.

She dreamed with shadows moving through the forest, dancing like the flames of a bonfire in the wind. Faceless shadows creeping stealthily. She was also a shadow, swift as a deer, light as feather, calm as still water. Being a shadow let her kill Walder Frey. She had left his moth-eaten body bleeding to death on his children's meat pie and carried on, leaving a trail of death at her path. The blood in her hands felt clean and fresh, like revenge.

Quiet as a shadow, she learned of the rumors that flowed from the north to The Riverlands. The Boltons had taken possession of Winterfell and their bastard had married Sansa, her sister. Sansa escaped from Winterfell to the Wall, where her half-brother, Jon, was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. The Night's Watch, with an army of wildlings fought for the throne of Winterfell in the battle that was named "The Battle of the Bastards" at lodges next to the Real Road. The Valley's army had joined the Stark forces and the Bolton had fallen. The Stark sigil had fluttered again in Winterfell, and Jon had been proclaimed The King in the North.

Her heart shrank as she listened to those stories. She would have liked to be in the Battle of the Bastards to finish off with her own hands the Boltons and Umbers traitors. She would have liked that Jon had seen how good she had become at swords, and that she still had Needle, her first sword, the sword he had given to her. She would have liked to be in Winterfell at that moment, wrapped in the heat of its hot springs, instead of shivering with cold in a rusty inn. She would even have liked to hug and kiss her sister Sansa, with whom she never shared good memories.

But Winterfell could wait, for just as she had learned of the glories of her brothers, she had also known the Tullys' fall, her maternal family. After the Red Wedding where her mother and Robb –the old gods keep them in their glory- had died, his uncle Edmure Tully was taken prisoner of the Freys, Freys that also had besieged Riverrun for months: the castle that her great-uncle, Brynden Tully, guarded. The siege ended with Brynden dead and the banners of the Lannister and Freys hanging from the walls. Riverrun was now another Freys' settlement. And the castle was in the sight of Arya Stark.

Nymeria woke up with her ears frozen and her stomach burning with hunger. The rest of the pack had already woken up. They were digging in the snow and sniffing around for food. At one time they had been a group of forty wolves, but now they were fifteen more. She looked at them for a moment, in their bones, with the opaque fur, crawling towards death. She remembered her dream of death, blood and revenge and Nymeria knew what she had to do; they were a pack of wolves anyway. She howled with the little strength she had left, summoning her brother wolves, and her howl echoed in the cold dawn.

* * *

Harrentown was a small village located on the shores of the Gods Eye, near Harrenhal's Castle. During the War of the Five Kings it was razed and burned by the forces of Tywin Lannister, like every corner of The Riverlands, but little by little, its former inhabitants were returning home. They had weeded the burned plantations and rebuilt their houses. They couldn't plant any fruit or vegetable before winter came, but they filled their pantry with the fish they fished from the lake and from some animals they still kept.

Since the Lannisters' victory that things were calmer. The Tullys had fallen, the Blackwoods had lost half of their land and now The Freys ruled The Riverlands, besides, Harrenhal was now under Petyr Baelish's jurisdiction, whom they had never heard of. The political-territorial map had changed drastically since King Robert's days, but at least, the inhabitants of Harrentown didn't have to fear the surprising arrival of a Lannister detachment that would sweep away everything in their path. Instead, the peasants had gone back to their pre-war daily routines, worrying about what really mattered: what they were going to eat.

Last summer had been long and happy, despite the death and war that crowned its end. Few of Harrentown's survivors had lived long enough to remember the Last Winter, but the stories they had heard of it didn't bode anything good. The scarce visitors that stayed at the town's inn told it'd been snowing straight-off for months in The North. There, on the other hand, the snow was slow to arrive, but that early warning doubled efforts to stock up on food.

As the crows had predicted, Winter had recently arrived in The Riverlands. It had been snowing for several days, but the snow was still soft and light, which didn't prevent daily tasks: wake up, feed the animals, remove the snow from the roofs and roads, light the fire to get warm and cook food.

It was a blue dawn, with the faint winter sun peeking behind the mountains. The fire had ignited inside the houses and a smell of porridge with honey and smoked fish came from them. Harrentown was a poor village, but they could still eat well; its inhabitants had recovered the color of their cheeks and the laughter on their lips that war had taken away from them. But they had forgotten that Winter brought a new war: the war of hunger.

The wolves burst into the calm morning like an avalanche. They knocked down the doors, smashed the windows and attacked the humans with their sharp fangs and long claws. The cries of Harrentown echoed in the valley, and the immaculate snow tinged with fresh blood. Some peasants tried to flee into the woods, but most were caught by the claws of the wolves, tearing their thighs and bellies as they foamed by their mouths.

The attack didn't take long. Soon, the newly rebuilt Harrentown had been devastated by Nymeria's pack, which ate until they filled theirselves up. Nymeria had her coat sticky of dried blood and her snout soaked, but at last the burning hunger had gone out. The pack remained prowling around the place, sniffing the remains, peeking inside the houses. When they discovered that the fire was still lit in some houses, they curled up beside it, enjoying a warm room, safe from the indolent Winter.

Unlike her brothers, Nymeria didn't lower her guard so soon. During the attack she had seen some peasants fleeing into the woods. They were unlikely to attack them again, with what weapons? With what armies? They were just a handful of unarmed peasants and war was over on that side of the world. Winter had bricked up the people in their homes and castles, so no one would come to their rescue. Soon they would die of cold, Nymeria tried to convince herself, but she couldn't stop thinking about the humans that once used to live in the forest. They were on horseback and some wear armor, but they were not like the armies of the great houses that paraded along the Kingsroad. The pack hadn't met them since Winter began, but Nymeria remembered them well.

The first time they met it was the fateful night when Grey Wind died. Nymeria still remembered her brother's anguished howl echoing on that moonless night, when blood could be smelled from miles away. She ran desperately in his voice's direction, she would have recognized the howl of her brothers anywhere, she knew it was Grey Wind and that he needed help… but a sudden blow to her heart made her realize that it was too late.

Lady was dead. Grey Wind was dead too. Her brothers were dying little by little, murdered by human hands, while Nymeria was hiding cowardly in the forest, waiting for the wolf girl to come, but would she come to find her like she promised? Or would she just be content to visit her in her dreams? Her heart had suddenly turned into an ice-floe, but the next second, it burned with flames of bitterness.

From the forest Nymeria watched as the humans killed each other. At dawn, the Stark's army camp they had set up outside the Twins was nothing but a sprinkler of blood and ash, still smoldering. The wolves rounded around the place, sniffing the remains, exploring the destruction. Meanwhile, Nymeria followed a trail from a familiar scent along the river bank. The river running near The Crossing was the Green Fork, a thick, marshy river with a layer of moss covering its surface. Given its sludge, it was easy to recognize the lump that protruded on the shore: a human body, naked and bled, white as snow. Nymeria took the body from its hair and dragged it out of the water. It was a woman with long red-hair. Nymeria knew instantly who it was, but she fled away when she heard humans approaching. Those were the humans of the forest. Those who took away the wolf girl's mother...

Suddenly and arrow grazed one of her ears and she heard a war cry. She had forgotten that they had just raided a village and that the humans could return to retrieve what was theirs. And Nymeria hadn't been wrong. The peasants had returned with the humans from the forest, men riding on horseback with their tattered armor. They were nothing more than a handful with bows and swords. The rest, the peasants, went on foot, brandishing stones in their hands as weapons.

The wolves had rushed out from the stormed houses at the men's cry. They grunted and bared their teeth, intimidating. They had already eaten and rest and again they'd become the fearsome pack they'd always been, the She-direwolf's pack known throughout The Riverlands. The man who had fired the arrow reloaded his bow and the wolves launched into attack.

Arrows and stones flew across the sky. The wolves climbed the horses' thighs, and they retreated, rising on their hind legs and bringing down the riders. The stones thrown by the peasants and swords of the inexperienced gentlemen made little damage, and some men began to flee, seeing that it was useless to fight the wolves. Some horsemen went back up to their horses to lash out at the wolves, but they were knocked down again.

Despite the futile efforts to drive the wolves out of the village, there was a man still on his horse, wielding his sword here and there, wounding some wolves and killing others. Nymeria had had little time to react to the sudden attack and hadn't noticed the tenacity of that knight of the woods: he was tall and well-built, and wielded his sword with some difficulty. The wolves had frightened most of the group who came to retake the village, but if Nymeria didn't do something, this man would continue to kill the few remaining wolves in her pack.

Nymeria howled and lunged at him. The man saw her coming and managed to dodge her, but the horse could not avoide her claws completely. His stomach busted open and his guts popped out, as the horse slowly faded away. The man buckled before falling with his horse and faced Nymeria wielding his sword. Unlike the rest of the men -those who had fled, but watched from a safe distance- he had a more knightly armor, simple and well-polished. Nymeria could not see his face because he wore a helmet in the shape of a bull.

The man roared and stepped forward to attack her, but Nymeria dodged him and bit his wrist to release the sword. The man screamed in pain and collapsed, as Nymeria lean on his chest, growling in his face. The helmet in the shape of a bull had fallen and a boy with blue eyes and thick black hair looked back at her.

Her heart shrank for a second, long enough for the boy to get out of her grip and flee with the rest of the men into the depths of the snowy forest.

* * *

Hello! I'm sorry I haven't updated this story but college has kept me busy :-(. I tried to write a long chapter but it didn't work out (it didn't work out at all) so I'm sorry for that too. All comments are appreciated! If there's some typos or if there's something that it's not understood please tell me so I can fix it :-)


	3. Jaime

**Jaime**

He'd got a smoky smell stuck into his nose that would take several weeks to fade away. And King's Landing was all covered with soot: the faces of the orphaned children, the few rags left they had to wear, the houses collapsed by the explosion, the port in flames and plundered by those who desperately fled from Queen Cersei's madness. King's Landing no longer had authorities: not without the High Septon and his Warrior's Son, not without the Tyrells and the favorite Queen of the people, Margaery, not without the Private Council and the Kingsguard. Definitely not with Cersei locked up all day in the Red Keep, drinking to the last drop of wine, with Qyburn and Ser Robert as two sentinels on her side.

Cersei and Jaime had hardly spoken since the Emerald Fire, and Jaime was not going to insist since every time he demanded an audience with the Queen, Ser Robert appeared with a spectral silence to imply that the Queen was not available at that time. But there was a lot of work to be done in King's Landing, and being busy distracted Jaime of Cersei's silence and Tommen's absence.

He'd heard that Tommen thrown himself down from the top of the Red Keep. Others said that Ser Robert had thrown him from the heights by orders of the Queen Cersei herself. He'd even heard that Tommen was one of the few to escape from the burning sept, throwing himself down from one of its towers. Whatever it was the truth, Jaime tried with all his might to not think about Tommen's last moments and focus his attention on the reconstruction of the city. Without King, without Private Councile, without Kingsguard, Jaime organized a small detachment that fulfilled the administrative functions. These units were composed of Lannister soldiers who had returned with him from the Riverlands and the few civilians without serious injuries who offered their help. Kingslanding was no longer a safe city under the King's tutelage; rather it was probably the most dangerous place to be, in times of uneasy peace after the War of the Five Kings. Most of the Flea Bottom's inhabitants fled after the Emerald Fire, some on foot, into the dark woods, other on stolen ships, sailing into the unknown ocean.

The first task of the troops of order and reconstruction directed by Jaime was to explore the burnt remains of the Great Sept of Baelor. The Wildfire had burned for so many days that the bodies were unrecognizable from each other. His uncle Kevan and his cousin Lancel had died in the fire, as well as dozens of Warrior's Sons and the High Septon. The youngest flowers of the Tyrells had also perished: Margaery and Loras, along with their father, Mace Tyrell. Jaime knelt beside a mound of ashes and prayed a little prayer to the Unknown, although he doubted that the Gods would ever listen again to the humans who had burned their holiest place.

 _Here lie the remains of Mace Tyrell, and his sons Margaery and Loras,_ thought Jaime. _Grow strong_.

But growing strong was his hatred. His three children had died, the blood of his blood, whom he could never treat more than a distant uncle, but within his heart they were his light and stars. Joffrey. Myrcella. Tommen. One after another. Buried meters underground.

He could not help wondering if he could have done anything to prevent it... if he had arrived earlier at Joffrey's wedding, if they had never sent Myrcella to Dorne, if he had arrived before Cersei's madness had been unleashed.

Jaime sighed and the ashes scattered beneath his breath. He, who broke his royal vows and murdered whom he had sworn to protect. He, who murdered the Mad King to prevent King's Landing from being burnt in the flames of hell, baptized with the name of Kingslayer in the process, which chased him like a curse. He, who always had the real pyromancer at his side, Cersei.

Soon the troops realized that there was nothing to recover on the Great Sept and they began to collect the debris from the building and its surroundings. No one knew where the Silent Sisters came from, who collected the ashes and human remains in the Sept and attended the dead corpses dispersed throughout the city, but they were of great help to the Lannister army who already had enough to deal with the lootings, the quarells, the dead and the rapes occurring in the alleys of King's Landing.

When night fell, Jaime made sure that everything was in order in the house of orphans and wounded that they had arranged, next to the vigilance of four Lannister soldiers, and went to the inn where he was staying to eat something (if it was) and sleep something (if he could). Cersei didn't open the Red Keep's door, so he had to find a place to stay in the city and the innkeeper let him stay without paying because she knew that nobody would dare to loot the inn where the Kingslayer slept. Bronn also stayed there -not helping the troops of order and rebuilding, of course- prowling the city and contemplating the destruction, observing how people killed each other by a piece of black bread. Jaime didn't know why he hadn't returned directly to Stokeworth after finishing the siege at the Riverlands, next to his silly Lollys and his stepson Tyrion, why he stayed in King's Landing, as a disgusting shadow that watched every one of his actions.

When Jaime returned to the inn at night, he'd always found Bronn drinking something that was supposed to be black beer, but Jaime did not want to know what it really was. "I've tried worse," said Bronn as he saw Jaime's grimace.

"The Kingslayer being the hero of King's Landing, who would say, uh", every night he would receive Jaime with a sour greeting like that. Jaime sat in front of him and the innkeeper hurried to serve him black bread next to a fried egg.

"Very funny", said the Lannister. He was never in the mood of Bronn's biting questions after a long day of work.

"Oh, it is. The favorite son of Tywin Lannister, the Kingslayer, the Captain of the Kingsguard with the shit to the knees rebuilding the city that his sister almost burned completely, sleeping in an inn full of fleas instead of the Red Keep's comfortable beds. Don't tell me you didn't think anyone would find it weird". Jaime devoured his bread as he pretended that Bronn's words did not matter to him.

"It's not as if I want to be here in the first place. If Cersei opened the Red Keep's doors instead of sending me that monster of Ser Robert whenever I go to talk to her I would sleep happily on one of the many mattresses in the Castle".

"But you know that if you get the city back, she will not open those doors nor her legs to you, do you?" Jaime gave him a first warning glance, but Bronn did not same to care.

"I'm not doing it for that."

"Then why? Why do you use your own army to save this shitty town? Why do you spend your time on this?" Jaime gave him a second warning glance, but it did not work either, although it was to be expected; he was no longer as imposing as he used to be since they had cut off his right hand.

"You do not have a castle to attend, a lady and a stepson who are waiting for you back home?" Bronn curled a smile and leaned back in his chair.

"Yes, but the most interesting things seem to be here". Jaime pushed his empty plate away. He was still hungry, but he could not ask for more in a half-burned city.

"Yes, very interesting to see the orphans wandering in the streets, seeing people killing themselves for a piece of bread, dozens of girls who are raped every night by about thirty men, as it happened before with Lollys". Jaime knew that Bronn didn't have a hint of affection for his wife and stepson, but he still got a bitter taste in his lips when he saw Bronn undisturbed at the memory.

"These things have always happened, with or without Emerald Fire. That Ser Jaime hadn't known until now is a different matter". He laughed and Jaime frowned. "What I find interesting is to see the inseparable twins and lovers Lannister facing each other".

"I'm not facing anyone."

"While one burns the city and is locked in her keep, the other lowers to the level of the people sleeping in the Flat Bottom, and cleans the shit left by his sister. It is not a direct confrontation, but we cannot say that you are on the same side, right?"

Jaime was going to reply in anger, but just then the innkeeper appeared with a nervous and stressed countenance.

"Ser, excuse me if I interrupt your conversation, but someone is looking for you out there". Jaime and Bronn looked at each other for a moment.

"Who is it?"

"I do not know, Ser Jaime. He seems to be a Kingsguard's knight, but he did not tell me anything. He just peered out the door of the inn and pointed you.

Jaime turned to the door and there was the dark, silent profile of Ser Robert.

"Oh, now this is interesting", Bronn murmured with a chuckle. Jaime glared at him and went to the innkeeper as he sat up.

"I'll be back soon", he said, reassuring her. He knew that if he left the inn for enough time, it would be looted and its innkeeper raped.

Jaime approached Ser Robert suspiciously. He wore the armor of the Kingsguard, whose whiteness contrasted with the black background that peeked out from inside the halmet. Jaime had never seen his eyes. In fact, he doubted that there was any human inside the armor.

As soon as he approached, Ser Robert turned and began to walk. Jaime interpreted it as a signal to follow him.

"Are you here by Cersei's orders?" Jaime asked. Ser Robert continued walking without showing any signs of having heard him. "Oh, I forgot you don't talk", he murmured to himself. However, Jaime realized that they were walking towards the Red Keep. "Though it seems I was right..."

Jaime wondered what had motivated Cersei to call him suddenly in the middle of the night. It had been several weeks since the Emerald Fire and Jaime had requested an audience with the Queen four times. All these times, Cersei sent Ser Robert in her representation, who kindly showed him the exit of the Castle. Suddenly, he felt his lungs tightening at the expectation of meeting her sister, not because of the unbridled passion he used to felt for her, but because of anguish: he was not ready to face Tommen's death, the death of his last offspring in the world.

The Red Keep was in the dark without a trace of the Kingsguard's detachment that used to protect it day and night. Maybe with Ser Robert was enough. The knight remained at the entrance of the castle and Jaime continued alone, carrying a torch he found at the entrance to light his way. He went upstairs and walked through the dark corridors to Cersei's room. The castle was cold and lonely, like the heart of his sister.

Jaime knocked the door before entering. Cersei's weak voice called him from the other side. He opened the door and received a room scented with the smell of his sister and lit by the candlelight. Cersei was sitting in an armchair in a simple brown dress. Her hair had grown and a few blond curls covered her ears. Between her fingers she picked up a glass of wine.

Cersei was beautiful and dazzling as ever, but Jaime could not feel anything for her.

"Hello", Cersei greeted timidly, looking down like an embarrassed child.

"Hi," Jaime replied dryly. Cersei looked hurt. He might had sounded harder than he expected, but he didn't know what to say to soften the situation.

"It's been a while", she whispered as she stroked the rim of her glass with one of her fingers. _That's because you did not want to talk to me_ , Jaime thought, but for some reason he chose to remain silent. "I wrote you", she muttered. "I wrote you saying they canceled the trial by combat. I wrote you saying that they were going to judge me, that they would condemn me, but you did not answer..." Jaime's throat tightened. He had forgotten to respond to those letters.

"I ... I was at the battlefield. I did not have time to answer letters". Cersei laughed and took a sip of wine.

"I wish I could have been on the Battlefield when Joffrey died in my arms", she said. "I wish I had been on the battlefield when you brought me Myrcella dead. I wish I had been away when they found Tommen busted in the cobblestones."

"Cersei…"

"But I was the daughter who had to stay in the castle bearing children, being fucked by the obese of Robert Baratheon, pretending to enjoy life in court, while you were away, fighting battles and bringing honor to your house. Jaime Lannister, the light in the eyes of Tywin Lannister, a lion made in his image and likeness". Jaime did not know where all the bitterness and resentment was coming from so suddenly, although he suspected the alcohol. He didn't know what to say, so he stood like an idiot, as rigid as his false hand.

"What... what happened while I was not here?", was the only thing he managed to articulate. Cersei laughed mirthlessly and took another sip of wine.

"Didn't they tell you? The Mad King returned to rule Westeros, but now she is a Mad Queen"

Jaime blinked in disbelief. That was not the Cersei he knew, the strong, passionate, overwhelming, beautiful and imposing woman, a lioness worthy of the Lannisters. The woman lying there was crazy and drunk.

"Cersei…", Jaime sat down next to his sister and took her hand. It was cold and soft, lifeless. "Cersei, tell me, what happened to Tommen?", Cersei's face twitched in a grimace of anguish and began to cry. Jaime pulled her against his chest, stroking it with his left hand.

"I was embarrassed, I was ashamed to see you and not knowing what to say. I... I just wanted to save Tommen. I wanted to save Tommen from Margaery Tyrell's clutches, I wanted to save him from the High Septo, I wanted to save him… I wanted to save him so he wouldn't be like Joffrey. I wanted him to be a righteous King, loved by his people, a great strategist like his grandfather, a brave knight like his father... but he... but he...", Cersei couldn't finish the sentence. She stammered and trembled as she gripped Jaime's body, who awkwardly stroke her head. "Our children. Our children, Jaime. They died in the hands of our enemies and we could do nothing for them, nothing!" Jaime sighed and rested his chin on Cersei's head.

"I wish I could tell you otherwise ... that we have something left". Suddenly, Cersei clung tightly to Jaime's clothes and stopped crying, speaking in anger.

"There's something left, Jaime. There is us", she looked up straight into his eyes. "Marry me. Marry me and let's be the kings of this shitty kingdom. Let's have many children to succeed us and rule this kingdom for centuries".

Jaime could not believe what Cersei was saying. He slowly moved away from her side and began to walk in circles around the room, nervous.

"Get married? What are you talking about? We cannot... we are brothers", Cersei smiled.

"That wasn't an obstacle for you all these years ..."

"But marrying you is different!" He tried to reason with her. "The others will know ..."

"The Targaryen had married their sisters for centuries, and they all knew it! Aegon the Conqueror married his two sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys...

"But the Targaryens no longer exist in this world!" He shouted, and Cersei looked at him strangely, as if she was looking at him for the first time. "It's impossible, is it so difficult to understand?" Cersei's lower lip trembled and his voice sounded hoarse as she replied.

"Is there another woman?" Jaime rolled his eyes.

"Although Tommen has dismissed me as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard I am still a knight, and as such, I am not supposed to marry or have children".

"But you had children! You had children with me!"

"And no one knew I was the father, not even they knew it before they died." Cersei cried again, this time in anger.

"My children, my poor children. Dead. Oh, Jaime, why do not you want to make me another baby? Who is that woman who rounds your thoughts?"

"There's never been another woman but you", he said, tired of Cersei's delirium. And the next words emerged from his throat, acid and repulsive like vomit. "Not like you…"

Cersei grew so angry that his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

"I was not born with a cock between my legs like you, Jaime! I was born a woman and therefore, I was the currency of our father's war negotiations. My job in the world was to be fucked and give birth. I'm sorry I couldn't help it".

"I'm not talking about Robert..." Tyrion's words resounded in his head: " _Cersei is a lying whore, she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleback and probably Moon Boy for all I know_."

"About who then?", inquired Cersei, angry and impatient.

"About Lancel, and Osmund and Osfryd Kettleback, and from what I've been told, you may have even fucked Moon Boy!" Jaime burst out, releasing the hatred he had accumulated for so many months. Cersei had stopped crying and stared at him stoically and proudly, not even trying to deny the accusations.

"A woman resorts to the weapons she has on hand to wage war. The Game of Thrones is played from all sides".

Jaime forced a dry laugh. "Do not tell me you did all this for me, do not tell me you did it for your children". Jaime laughed, but Cersei glared at him.

"Lancel got Robert drunk that time he went out hunting and ended up with the fangs of a boar embedded in his chest. Osmund and Osfryd discovered that Margaery was drinking Moon tea, deceiving Tommen, deceiving us all, so yes, everything I did I did it for my children, for you, for me…"

Jaime stopped laughing and a heavy silence fell between the brothers. He sighed.

"I do not even know why you brought me here today." Cersei looked at him, still holding the glass of wine.

"I wanted to see you", she murmured. Jaime snorted in exasperation. He stretched out his arms, showing himself and walking toward the exit.

"Well, you already saw me".

Jaime made his way from the Red Fort to the inn in the center of the city. He felt a touch of guilt at having been so hard on Cersei when they were both so hurt. They had both lost their children and had not given themselves time to mourn. They were always plotting intrigues and entanglements to avenge from their enemies, without giving themselves a space for their pain, a space for them. In the cold of the night Jaime wondered if perhaps there was still a "them".

The inn was intact when it arrived, so he sighed in relief. He went up quickly to the room that he shared with Bronn and undressed for bed. He was exhausted after such a long day of work and the discussion with Cersei had worn him even more. Bronn's snoring wasn't an impediment to quickly fall asleep in a quiet, dreamless darkness.

But that deceptive tranquility was interrupted when someone woke him up shaking his shoulder. Jaime sat up confused and rubbed his eyes. At the edge of his bed was an orphaned child, with visible lice in his shaved head and a filthy rag as a vest. Jaime didn't get to ask what he was doing there and how he entered his room when the boy handed him a piece of paper with his black nails.

Jaime received the paper and the boy fled out the window. He still didn't understand what was happening when he opened the letter to read it inside. In its center was drawn a three-headed dragon, accompanied by Tyrells' flowers on the right, and the Martells' sun pierced by a golden spear on the left. The letter was signed with a drawn spider.

Jaime clutched the paper on his hands and muttered:

"Shit".


End file.
